


where the seagulls cry

by Vilchen



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Pining Victor Nikiforov, Victor Nikiforov-centric, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:07:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28077447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vilchen/pseuds/Vilchen
Summary: Victor has lived in St. Petersburg his whole life. He grew up walking down these streets, clinging to his mother’s hand, stumbling in his too big winter boots and gawking at the big, clunky cars racing past them on their way to daycare. Even the cracks in the sidewalk had interested him then, and his mother would have to tug him along to not be late. When he got tired and whiny she would hoist him up on her hip, and Victor would count streetlights and pigeons over her shoulder for the rest of the way, hands curled in her warm winter scarf.Or: Victor never thought he'd leave St. Petersburg.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8
Collections: Holidays!!! on Ice (2020)





	where the seagulls cry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [C-chan (1001paperboxes)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1001paperboxes/gifts).



> This was made for the Holidays!!! on Ice gift exchange, and [C-chan (1001paperboxes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1001paperboxes/pseuds/C-chan) requested some soft, good Victor fic, which I've done my best to provide! 
> 
> Thank you so much to [Kathe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandolinearts) for betaing and for being a treasure. ♡

Victor has lived in St. Petersburg his whole life. He grew up walking down these streets, clinging to his mother’s hand, stumbling in his too big winter boots and gawking at the big, clunky cars racing past them on their way to daycare. Even the cracks in the sidewalk had interested him then, and his mother would have to tug him along to not be late. When he got tired and whiny she would hoist him up on her hip, and Victor would count streetlights and pigeons over her shoulder for the rest of the way, hands curled in her warm winter scarf. 

On the way is the restaurant where Yakov later bought him his first beer after his first win at nationals, three supermarkets of which none have Makkachin’s preferred kind of dog food, and parks Victor has visited for over twenty years; first with his parents to rent skates for the outdoor rink — he remembers falling, slipping, his father’s strong arms and the _swoosh_ of being lifted high up in the air –; and then alone, on evenings when he would stop with his foot on the last step of the stairwell leading up to their tiny apartment and hear loud, upset voices through the front door. He’s spent a decade’s worth of summers jogging around the pond with Makkachin at his heels, soaking his sneakers in puddles of spring rain and cooling down in the shade of the trees with a bag of cherries to indulge in, sold by the same old lady at a stand near the subway station for fifteen years.

Back then he never would’ve thought that he’d ever leave St. Petersburg.

As it is, Hasetsu is barely the size of a pea on the map of Japan. You could walk from one side of the town to the other in not much more than an hour, and you’re guaranteed to meet the same seven people on the way back as you did on your way to. It’s a sleepy seaside town even when its citizens are all awake, with no traffic even at rush hours – hard to make traffic when barely anyone needs a car. 

The lack of noise makes him restless, at first. Instead of sleeping, he spends his first few nights in Hasetsu painting his memories of That Night into the ceiling of his room with his eyes; Yuuri’s smile, blinding, and his own heart, stumbling.

He holds onto the memories of That Night, whispering his confessions and confusions into Makkachin’s fur at night. Yuuri, Yuuri, Yuuri. Dizzying, euphoric, drunk on champagne Yuuri, spinning him around the room as if the ground beneath their feet was made to carry them upwards. What a man. What a _dancer_. 

«Who do you think he wants me to be, Makka?» he whispers, but Makkachin sleeps heavily against his side.

* * *

_I want you to stay who you are, Victor!_

It surprises him, the look on Yuuri’s face as he says so. For a brief moment, with Yuuri staring so intently at him and the gulls screaming overhead, the thought strikes him –

This could be his home. If Yuuri wants it, he could stay here with him until his joints grow rust and Makkachin no longer bounds ahead, at peace in this sleepy seaside town until he too fades away to the sound of gulls.

«I can do that.»

Makkachin leads them back to the onsen with salt and sand drying in her fur, and every now and then Yuuri’s knuckles brush against his. They walk close to each other for the rest of the way home.

* * *

The day after their return from China is a well deserved rest day. Yuuri sleeps in late, as he prefers to do, while Victor wanders the onsen until Makkachin rouses from her nap and fetches him her leash for their morning walk. 

He doesn’t get lost anymore, as he did in the beginning. They walk along the beach to the backdrop of waves crashing into shore and the cries of black-tailed gulls flying overhead. It’s a familiar scene, a throwback to early mornings in St. Petersburg when the air would still carry the chill of night and most of the city still slept, as much as a big city is capable of, at that. Makkachin bounds ahead, loose from her leash, and it strikes him how little he actually felt on those early mornings in St. Petersburg – the sun on his face, the fresh sea breeze ruffling his hair; it all feels exciting, somehow. Refreshing. New.

The sound of gulls and the sea follows them on the rest of their walk until Victor whistles for Makkachin to come back. Her tail wags furiously and her legs carry her further than what would be expected of a senior citizen like herself, and they make it back to the onsen just in time for lunch. 

Yuuri coos and buries his hands in Makkachin’s fur as soon as she trots into the dining room, rubbing her ears and gently pushing her snout away from his plate. Victor strips off his jacket and joins them, the taste of salt still on his lips as Yuuri smiles against them with a peck.

* * *

He’s gotten used to the silence as well. Instead of searching for the sound of cars and people, he hears the sound of rustling leaves in the wind along with the pitter patter of raindrops against his window. Victor aches. He aches for music and fragments of loose choreography and the sound of the audience as he takes off for a quad –– he aches for Yuuri, his hands, his lips, the chance to hold him and sweep him up in a dance until _he_ is the one thrown off balance, like Victor was all those months ago. 

He can’t have both.

He shuts his eyes and wills his breathing to even out. It’s enough, how it is. He’ll show his love by making Yuuri the best, like he promised.

* * *

On the day of the Grand Prix Final short program, Victor leaves a dozing Yuuri and escapes the hotel. Barcelona isn’t cold like Victor knows winter to be, but the chill in the air still does a favor to his muddled mind. With no Makkachin by his side, Victor still finds himself wandering to the beach. 

There’s something about the sea. It doesn’t change the way he does, be it in St. Petersburg or Hasetsu or on the coast of Spain. Looking out over the vast blue, Victor already feels the sea breeze clear out his lungs, his mind.

Rings. Good luck rings, promise rings, _engagement_ rings. 

_It’s almost like a marriage proposal,_ he’d said, drunk on the feeling of finally holding him again after watching him fall apart. _Be my coach, Victor_ , Yuuri had said, drunk on sixteen glasses of champagne—and maybe, just a little bit, drunk on Victor as well.

It glints in the light of the morning sun, round and golden and warm around his finger. It’s been barely twelve hours since Yuuri first slid it in place, but Victor closes his eyes and can’t imagine himself without it. Never has there been less standing between him and those two words than now. Just… something round and golden.

A boot meets his back, and Yuri doesn’t show him the courtesy of pulling his punches against senior skaters like him whose bodies are already beaten black and blue three times over. Too young and too furious to hold his breath for anyone, Yuri already looks as if he’s fighting for the medal on the ice.

«Victor Nikiforov is as good as dead. The ring that pig gave you is worthless, and I’ll show it by winning gold.»

There is very little standing between Victor and those two words. But Yura is fierce; an ever evolving monster. Too fierce, sometimes. Victor wills his hands to stop shaking. He lets go of Yuri’s chin.

«This place reminds me of Hasetsu, you know?»

Yuri has lived in St. Petersburg since he was twelve, but the sound of waves and seagulls is more now. Victor twists the ring around his finger as the breeze plays with his hair. 

«It’s funny; I was thinking the same thing.»

* * *

_An ever evolving monster_ , his mind haunts him later that day when Yuri Plisetsky shatters his world record in front of the whole world. His knuckles have gone white around the railing. He thought they’d last longer. 

* * *

Victor’s world has crashed and burned before. Twelve years old, watching his father leave with his belongings stuffed into the trunk of a taxi while his mother stood at the doorstep, shaking too bad to light her cigarette; twenty years old, waking up in a hospital bed with his leg lifted high in a cast, Yakov’s hand clasped tightly around his shoulder: _I’m sorry, Vitya._

«Thanks to you, I was able to give everything I had into my last season.»

Twenty seven, when Yuuri Katsuki breaks his heart. 

* * *

Victor steals glances at him. He would rather not, really, but it can’t be helped – it’s become a habit this past year. Yuuri’s eyes are cast downwards, his whole body straining under the weight of his muddled thoughts. Victor can’t hope to decipher them when Yuuri himself can’t, and part of him doesn’t want to. 

(A part of him is still back at the onsen with Makkachin, crying himself to sleep while Yuuri breathes easily in the room across the hall.)

But Yuuri is stepping onto the ice now – maybe for the last time – and Victor can’t let him end like this. 

«Yuuri, listen to me. I wasn’t sure if I should tell you this now, but— I took a break after becoming the five-time world champion to coach you, so how is it possible that you still haven’t won a single gold metal?»

Yuuri’s eyes widen, warm and brown and sparkling—they always sparkle when he’s searching for something—as he meets Victor over the boards separating them.

«How long are you going to stay in warm-up mode?» Victor asks, holding back tears. «I really want to kiss that gold medal.»

Arms around him, clinging as if Yuuri’s going to miss this as much as he is; impossible, but at least they have this moment, right now, and the next four minutes. 

And oh, they are the most emotional four minutes of Victor’s life. How is it that whenever he thinks _this is it, this is how far I can go,_ Yuuri Katsuki proves him wrong and pushes himself to new peaks, higher and higher and higher until it doesn’t fit in him anymore, until it threatens to burst out of him in some spectacular, surprising way because that’s somehow become their love language and –

Quad flip. A hand, outstretched, reaching for him, seizing the beating heart in his chest.

His record shatters. Beautifully. 

Barely minutes later Yuri grips his arm, eyes blazing, «Does that mean Katsudon is retiring?»

«That’s his decision. He said he’d decide after the Grand Prix Final was over.»

Yuri’s expression is the perfect portrayal of doom, and it strikes Victor then that this teenager is the only person standing between his Yuuri and a gold medal. Yuri shows no resistance at being pulled into an embrace, arms hanging limply at his sides.

«Don’t forget what it is you want.» Victor squeezes him one last time. «This is your chance.»

* * *

0.12 points. The smallest margin in any competition Victor has attended in his fourteen years in the international competitive circuit.

He meets Yuri’s stare over Yakov’s shoulder, steely and unreadable. _Thank you,_ he tries to convey before he breaks off to find his own skater. His heart beats wildly in his chest, resolute.

* * *

Yuuri bounces a little on his feet, warmed up and filled with adrenaline for the skate. He always looks stunning in blue, but today they’re matching, and Victor can barely take his eyes off of him. Yuuri’s team Japan jacket is slung over his shoulders and his hair is slicked back, but already some of the strands have escaped and curl against the curve of his cheek. 

Victor pushes it back behind his ear, careful not to smudge the streak of highlighter on his cheekbone. He tangles his fingers with Yuuri’s and lifts them to his lips, pressing a chaste kiss to the warm gold resting on his finger.

«Ready to dance with me?» he asks. The smile Yuuri gives him is excited, teetering on the edge of shaky. 

«Always,» he says, and squeezes back.

An attendant gives a sign for him to step on the ice, and Yuuri does. The team Japan jacket is slung over Victor’s arm, contrasting with the bright magenta color of his own jacket. One last lingering smile, and he’s off.

Yuuri might not remember their first night, but it has haunted Victor’s thoughts for what feels like an eternity. At least he gets the chance to do it right, this time.

«The men’s singles silver medalist, Japan’s Yuuri Katsuki,» the announcer calls. «His exhibition is the free skate program of his coach, Victor Nikiforov, who’s just announced his comeback to competitive skating. Last year’s _Stay Close to Me._ »

Victor watches Yuuri take his starting pose, lets the first few notes of the aria wash over him, and takes off his skate guards. The dance partner of his life is waiting for him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Happy holidays to those of you who celebrate, and happy end of the year to those of you who don't! 
> 
> Comments will be cradled in my arms like a precious gift and forever appreciated if you feel like leaving one ♡
> 
> [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/vilchenwrites)  
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/vilchen_writes)


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